Christmas in Quake City
by Susan M. M
Summary: Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry are still trying to go straight.  Maybe Quake City, California, home of the Apple Dumpling Gang, wasn't the best place to try.
1. New Jobs

**Standard fanfic warning that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law**. These aren't my characters. I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. Yeah, that's it, typing practice. Originally published in Just You, Me, and the Governor #31, from Neon RainBow Press. Based on characters and situations created by Glen A. Larson, Don Tait, and Jack Bickham. There is no intent to infringe on the rights held by Glen A. Larson, Roy Huggins, ABC, Don Tait, Jack Bickham, Norman Tokar, Walt Disney Studios, or any other parties. This is an amateur work of fiction, and no profit has been derived from its writing, save for the joy of chasing my muse across the keyboard.

**_Christmas in Quake City_**

by Susan M. M.

_Alias Smith and Jones/The Apple Dumpling Gang_

**Tulare County, California**

**October 1879**

"Real pretty country," Hannibal Heyes observed. There were womenfolk who would consider him a pretty sight himself: brown-haired, brown-eyed, handsome face, strong muscles. He sat the gray stallion as though he and the horse were one creature.

"Real pretty," his partner and kinsman, Jedediah "Kid" Curry, agreed. He was two or three years younger than his cousin. His boyish face and curly hair – which could never make up its mind if it should be blond or light brown – made him look even younger. "I've been thinking about this amnesty business."

"You're not thinking of quitting, are you? Not after all the time and effort we've put into going straight?" Heyes asked. Two years ago he'd been the leader of the Devil's Hole Gang, the most notorious outlaws west of the Mississippi River.

"I'm not planning on going back to robbing banks and trains," Curry assured him. "It's just the way we're going about this. We don't like the aliases Lom gave us; let's just dump 'em and choose our own. Nobody knows us here – not closer than San Francisco. We can call ourselves anything we want and nobody'll know the difference."

Heyes thought a minute. It was true neither of them liked the aliases Sheriff Lom Trevors had chosen for them. However, Lom kept an ear out for the doings of "Joshua Smith" and "Thaddeus Jones," and reported their deeds (and misdeeds) to the governor.

"Instead of being good little boys and reporting to Lom that we're keeping our noses clean, let's just drop out of sight. Disappear."

"Then how will the governor know where to mail our amnesty papers?" Heyes countered.

"Hoyt can only grant us amnesty within the Territory of Wyoming," Curry reminded him. "There are wanted posters for us from the Dakota badlands to the Rio Grande. If we get arrested, they could extradite us anywhere we ever robbed anybody. And that covers a lot of territory."

Heyes nodded. He knew his partner was right. That didn't mean he had to like it. "Let's not borrow trouble."

"Trouble seems to find us easily enough on its own," Curry agreed. He changed the subject and they chatted amiably until they reached Quake City, California.

**AS&J/ADG**

"What do you want to do first?" Curry asked. "Stop at the saloon, find a hotel room, what?"

Heyes pointed at the barbershop. "Get a haircut."

"A haircut?"

Heyes urged his gray across the street to the barbershop. He dismounted and tethered the stallion to the hitching post. "Barbers are like bartenders: they hear everything. If anyone's hiring, he'll know."

Curry got off his pinto and tied it next to Heyes' gray. Both slipped feedbags over their horses' heads.

"Howdy, fellows," a small, white-haired man greeted them. "You looking for the barber, the sheriff, or the justice of the peace?"

"Barber," Heyes replied. He ran a finger through his shaggy brown hair. "Can't go job-hunting looking like this."

"You boys looking for work?" the old man asked.

"Yes, sir," both replied in unison.

"Sit down." The barber pointed to a chair and reached for his scissors.

"The sheriff and the judge, they spend much time here?" Curry asked, concealing his nervousness at the possibility.

"Quite a bit." His blue eyes twinkling, the man introduced himself, "Homer McCoy, barber, sheriff, and justice of the peace. And you are…?"

"Joshua Smith," Heyes replied promptly. "And this is my partner, Thaddeus Jones."

Curry shot Heyes a dirty look, but said nothing.

"Shouldn't have much trouble finding a job," McCoy told them. "Ever since the Bradley Nugget was found, every fool and his brother have been digging for gold."

"The Bradley Nugget? That the giant hunk of ore we read about in the newspapers?" Curry asked.

McCoy nodded. "Last month the three Bradley kids found a nugget that weighed over three hundred pounds in a mine that was supposed to be played out. Since then, every idiot for miles around has been abandoning honest work to try to go strike it rich. You should have no trouble finding a job. Or you can take your chances looking for gold."

"Tried prospecting, it's hard on the back," Curry said.

"In a gold rush," Heyes explained, "the best way to get rich is to be the one selling the picks and shovels."

"With a sensible attitude like that, you two won't starve. All done. Want a shave, since you're in the chair anyway?" McCoy asked.

"Might as well."

"The hotel's right comfortable, but if you're planning to settle, Mrs. O'Reilly's boarding house is cheaper." McCoy chatted as he shaved first Heyes, then Curry, advising them as to lodgings, places to eat, and leads on possible jobs.

As they were paying him, they heard a commotion outside. Between a thick southern accent and a thicker Spanish one, it was a moment before they could understand what was being shouted.

"I'm not going to drive a stagecoach for thirty dollars a month when I can make that much in a day in the gold mines," declared a young Mexican man.

"You'll be lucky to find thirty cents' worth of gold in those hills," retorted an older, well-dressed gentleman.

"I quit, Señor Clydesdale."

"You can't quit, Sanchez. You're fired," replied Clydesdale.

"Lose another driver, Colonel? Looks like Dusty'll have to come out of retirement," McCoy suggested.

Heyes looked at his partner, then at the white-haired colonel. Seeing assent in his partner's blue eyes, he stepped forward. "Colonel, maybe we can help you out."

Bleary-eyed despite the early hour, the colonel peered at the stranger. "Do I know you, suh?"

"Colonel Clydesdale, this is Joshua Smith and his partner Timothy Jones."

"Thaddeus," Curry corrected the barber reluctantly.

"Thaddeus Jones," McCoy introduced them. "They're new in town."

"You need a new driver. We're looking for honest work." Heyes stressed the adjective slightly.

"Can you drive a stagecoach?" Colonel Clydesdale asked.

"I can drive a wagon," Heyes hedged, thinking it couldn't be too different. "And my partner can ride shotgun. He's the best shot you've ever seen."

"By gum, you must have been sent by Providence. Come, let us retire to the saloon and celebrate our new association," Colonel Clydesdale suggested.

"Well, that didn't take long," McCoy observed. He didn't specify if he was referring to the speed with which Heyes and Curry had found work, or how little time the colonel had wasted before adjourning to the saloon.

"Of course, I'll have to discuss the matter with Mrs. Donovan," the colonel added as an afterthought.

"Mrs. Donovan?" Heyes asked.

**AS&J/ADG **

Mrs. Donovan was an attractive redhead, elegantly garbed in pink brocade. She didn't look as if her daintily-gloved hands had ever handled anything more strenuous than a crochet hook. Heyes and Curry had trouble believing that she was the former driver.

"Pa, you lost another driver?" she asked in dismay. "I'm a married woman now. I have three young'uns to tend to, a house to clean, cows to milk, and pigs to slop. I can't keep rescuing you every time a driver quits."

"But, Magnolia, my dear, this gentleman is going to be our new driver."

"You ever driven a stage?" she asked.

"I've driven a wagon," Heyes replied. "Both of us have."

"A coach and four is different from a horse and cart, or even a two-horse wagon. Real different," she warned him.

"Then teach me," Heyes challenged. "If you can do it, I can learn it."

Mrs. Donovan looked him over, scrutinizing him thoroughly.

"One week. If I can't learn in one week, then you don't have to pay me," Heyes offered.

"Hold it," Curry whispered.

"It's all right. I can do it," Heyes whispered back.

Mrs. Donovan glanced up at her father for his approval. "All right. I'll tell Russel he'll need to watch the kids for a few days. One week's trial. And if you can't hack it, we don't owe you a penny."

Heyes nodded his agreement. After Colonel Clydesdale and his daughter left, Curry turned to him and asked, "Are you crazy?"

"No more than usual."

"A week of work without getting paid?" Curry asked.

"Only if I can't learn it, and I can. So there's no worry," Heyes assured him.

"And what do you mean, calling ourselves Smith and Jones? I thought we were going to change our handles."

"I want that amnesty," Heyes replied. "I don't care if it's only good in Wyoming. I want that piece of paper. Besides, I didn't have time to think of new names."

**AS&J/ADG **

The next day, when they saw Mrs. Donovan dressed in old trousers, a leather vest, and a battered felt hat, they could believe that she used to be known as "Dusty" before her marriage and retirement. Heyes was good with animals, and clever-handed. In three days' time, she pronounced him competent to handle the stagecoach solo.

Both the new driver and his shotgun earned their first week's pay.

**AS&J/ADG **

October passed well enough.

They found lodgings at Mrs. O'Reilly's boarding house. They kept their horses at the Butterfly Stage Company's stable, which saved them the cost of a livery stable. A few nights a week they played poker at the saloon to supplement their salary. Once a week they played with Dusty's husband, Russel Donovan. More often than not, they supplemented his income.

November went well. Come December, they began talking about heading south.

"Getting too cold and damp for outdoor work," Heyes pointed out.

"That's for sure," Curry agreed. "But would you want Mrs. Donovan to be out driving in this weather?"

Heyes thought. It would be a shame for their employer's daughter to have to take back the reins in the winter rains. Especially since she'd put on just a little bit of weight lately, and the town gossips were wondering aloud if she might be in a delicate condition.

"Not our problem who the colonel hires to replace us. We've got a nice bit saved up. We should head down to Los Angeles, or San Diego, where it's warmer. We've been here three months, three months at the same job. That proves we're reliable and steady, doesn't it?"

Curry nodded.

"Heck, we could probably get character references from the colonel and the sheriff. Wouldn't that help Lom convince the governor we deserve amnesty, getting a letter of recommendation from a sheriff?"

"You got a point there," Curry agreed. "We'd have a better chance of getting Colonel Clydesdale to speak well of us if we gave him a week or two's notice, let him have a fair chance of hiring a replacement."

**AS&J/ADG **

Colonel Clydesdale invited them to Sunday dinner at his daughter's house that week, and they broke the news to him then.

"You can't leave. Who would drive the stage?" the colonel asked.

"I'm sure you can find someone else," Heyes said, helping himself to another piece of cornbread. "This is real good, ma'am."

"Thank you." Mrs. Donovan looked over at her father. "I'm retired, Pa."

"You can't go now," Celia Bradley protested. "You won't be here for Christmas. Santa Claus won't know where to find you."

"Santa's clever. I'm sure he'll track us down," Curry told the child.

"Stay 'til the new year, at least," the colonel urged. "You can celebrate Christmas here with us."

Russel Donovan raised an eyebrow at the way his father-in-law invited guests to _his_ house for the holidays, then nodded his consent. "It would be a shame to spend Christmas on the road," the dark-haired gambler agreed. He'd done so himself, more than once.

The ex-outlaws traded glances and came to a silent agreement.

"Thank you for the invitation; we'd be pleased to keep Christmas with you," Heyes said. "We'll stay 'til the new year, but after that, we're moving on."

"You've got our notice, all proper," Curry added.

After dinner, Heyes quietly asked, "Should we bring any vittles for Christmas dinner, or anything for the kids?"

Mrs. Donovan shook her head. "Just a handful of howdy and a mouthful of much obliged."

"Don't worry about the kids," Mr. Donovan added. "We'll make sure Santa Claus tends to them properly."

**AS&J/ADG **

"Oh, no." Dick Peterson, the telegraph operator, turned to his son. "Will, get this over to the sheriff, right away."

"Yes, Pa." The lanky teenager stuffed the yellow paper into his pocket. He headed for the barbershop.

"Hey, Will," called out Betty Lou Cochran.

"Hey, Betty Lou."

Her eyes were cornflower blue, and her lashes were long and thick, and batting up at Will in the most fascinating way. The sixteen-year-old had begun to change and grow in ways that Will – and every other boy in town – found very interesting. In a few minutes, Will's head was so full of her freckled face and youthful curves that he completely forgot the telegram in his pocket. And it stayed forgotten and ignored, until his mother checked the pockets before doing laundry two days later.


	2. Christmas Dinner

**Standard fanfic warning that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law**. These aren't my characters. I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. Yeah, that's it, typing practice. Originally published in Just You, Me, and the Governor #31, from Neon RainBow Press. Based on characters and situations created by Glen A. Larson, Don Tait, and Jack Bickham. There is no intent to infringe on the rights held by Glen A. Larson, Roy Huggins, ABC, Don Tait, Jack Bickham, Norman Tokar, Walt Disney Studios, or any other parties. This is an amateur work of fiction, and no profit has been derived from its writing, save for the joy of chasing my muse across the keyboard.

_Christmas in Quake City_

_**by Susan M. M.**_

_Alias Smith and Jones/The Apple Dumpling Gang_

"Homer! Homer!" Dick Peterson pounded on Sheriff McCoy's door.

"Dag-nab it, what's so all-fired important that you need to knock my door off the hinges during the middle of Christmas dinner?"

"This telegram. My boy was supposed to give it to you two days ago."

The white-haired man read the telegram, then swore. "I gotta get out to the Donovan place, right away. If I'm not back in two hours, round up a posse and send 'em after me."

**AS&J/ADG **

"Mighty fine turkey, ma'am," Curry complimented Mrs. Donovan. "Can't remember the last time we had a Christmas dinner like this."

Heyes' expression fell. His eyes lost their twinkle; his expression, after a moment of grief, became wooden. He remembered the last time he'd had a Christmas dinner like this: December 25, 1862. By Christmas of '63, his whole family – except for his favorite cousin –had been dead and buried, killed by soldiers who accused them of "providing aid and comfort to the enemy." Since soldiers from both sides routinely looted the dead for uniforms and supplies, Heyes had never been sure whether they were Union or Confederate. They'd worn a mixture of blue, gray, and homespun.

"Dusty" Donovan recognized the look on his face. She'd seen it in the mirror, the first year she'd had to make Christmas dinner for just herself and Pa, instead of helping Ma with the dinner. And the second year, and the third, and whenever she heard Ma's favorite song, or passed a lady wearing the same lily-of-the-valley perfume Ma had loved. She changed the subject, hoping to break the mood before memories overwhelmed Heyes. Holidays surely did bring back the memories.

"Would you like some more mashed potatoes? Or is two helpings your limit?"

"I could force down some more," Amos Tucker agreed.

"Me, too," said Theodore Ogilvie.

"Never have to worry about leftovers with you two around," Dusty muttered.

"Pass that this way when–" Curry interrupted himself. "Did you hear that?" He automatically reached for a pistol that wasn't there.

Heyes and Curry exchanged glances. Heyes nodded. Curry slipped from his chair. With small children in the house, he'd hung his gunbelt out of reach as soon as he'd arrived. Now he fetched his weapon and peeked out the window.

"Someone's out there," the gunslinger announced.

"What do you see?" Russel Donovan asked, keeping his voice down.

"Nothing," Curry admitted, "but someone's out there."

Years of living by his wits had taught Donovan to trust his instincts. Three months of playing poker with Thaddeus Jones and Joshua Smith had taught him to trust their judgment. "Amos, Theodore, get the kids upstairs. And the Colonel," he added as an afterthought.

Dusty fetched her rifle and her husband's gun. She handed the pistol to him. Heyes got his own weapon.

Curry slid the window open and poked his Colt out.

"Dusty, go bar the kitchen door. Keep an eye out the back window," Donovan ordered his wife.

She nodded and hurried to obey.

"Surely you are overreacting, Magnolia," Colonel Clydesdale began in his slow southern drawl.

"Pa, we need you to keep the kids safe," Dusty fibbed. She loved her father, but she knew how little use he would be in a fight.

"They got guns!" someone yelled outside, spotting the weapons poking through the windows. The strangers started shooting at the house. Heyes, Curry, and Donovan began firing back.

"Don't they know it's Christmas?" Curry muttered.

"Someone is shooting at us," Colonel Clydesdale exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes, Pa," Dusty replied impatiently. "Amos, Theodore, get him and the kids upstairs." She went back to the kitchen and set down her rifle to grab a two-by-four to bar the door.

Before she could set it in place, the door burst open. Three armed men rushed in.

"Hands up!" a dark-haired, swarthy-skinned man ordered.

Dusty swung at him with the two-by-four, knocking the gun out of his hand.

"Ow!"

She swung again and hit him upside the head. "They're in here," she called out. Again she swung.

The blond gunman ducked. The other, a scrawny brown-haired man with a broken nose, aimed his pistol at her. "Drop it."

The redhead set the board down.

Curry came up behind her. He fired, hitting the arm of the blond man reaching for Dusty's rifle.

"Don't try that again," ordered the man with the pistol pointed at Mrs. Donovan. "You might be able to get me, but I'll get her first," he warned. "Drop your gun."

After a second's hesitation, Curry complied.

"Shoot him, Beckham," the wounded man urged.

"Naw, Frank'll decide who lives or dies." Beckham gestured with his gun. "That way."

Hands raised, Curry and Dusty preceded the outlaws into the parlor.

"Put your guns down, or the pretty lady gets a bullet through her brains," Beckham announced.

"Dusty!" Russel Donovan turned to see his wife and Thaddeus Jones prisoners. "If you've hurt her…"

"I won't if you drop them guns."

Heyes and Donovan traded glances, then laid their guns on the floor.

"Go get 'em, Pat," Beckham ordered.

The wounded Pat gathered the weapons, then he threw open the front door. "C'mon in, we got 'em."

A moment later they were joined by six armed men. One was a big man who wore a metal leg brace.

"Stillwell," Donovan said quietly, disdainfully.

"Frank Stillwell?" Curry glanced at his cousin, dismay in his blue eyes. Stillwell was as infamous an outlaw in California as they had been in Wyoming and Colorado. But while they had been lauded as modern Robin Hoods who never hurt anyone, Stillwell had a reputation for violence.

"You started Christmas dinner without us. That's downright inhospitable of you," Stillwell observed. The note of cold malice in his oily voice chilled everyone in the room. "You caused me a lot of grief, Donovan. I'm gonna kill you for that… after I kill Amos and Theodore."

"They're here, Boss," Pat reported. "I heard her telling them to get the young'uns upstairs."

Stillwell nodded. He limped to the foot of the stairs. "Amos! Theodore! Come down here so I can shoot you."

"No way I could resist an invitation like that," Heyes muttered.

"You don't know Amos and Theodore," Donovan whispered back.

"Where's Garcia?" Stillwell asked.

"In the kitchen, Boss," Beckham replied. "She whacked him with a board, knocked him out cold."

"What happened to you?" Stillwell asked Pat.

"He did." The blond outlaw pointed with his good arm at Curry. "Can I shoot him?"

"You're gonna regret that," Stillwell informed Curry. "You can shoot him later, Pat, after I get _my_ killing done. Go fetch some bandages, missus, and get him patched up."

Dusty looked as though she was about to spit in his eye. Knowing his wife's temper, Donovan urged, "Do what he says."

There were always accidents on a farm, especially with three children on the place. It only took Mrs. Donovan a moment to get something to bandage Pat. Not trusting herself to speak, she washed and tended his wound silently. She looked up from the bullet hole in his arm to see Celia, Clovis, Amos, and Theodore come halfway down the stairs, hands raised.

"Hey, Boss, weren't there three kids?"

"Yeah." Stillwell turned to Clovis and Celia. "Where's your brother?"

"He went to his friend Homer's place," Clovis answered innocently.

"He ain't home for Christmas dinner?" Stillwell asked suspiciously.

"Homer got a pony. Wanted to show it off," Donovan volunteered.

"For all our sakes, let's hope it's a fast pony," Heyes muttered. He never thought he'd hope for a sheriff to arrive.

"Get over here so I can kill you," Stillwell ordered Amos and Theodore.

"Gee, Frank, you ain't still holding a grudge, are you?" Amos asked.

"Why, whatever gave you that idea?" Stillwell snarled. "Just 'cause you ruined my leg and helped _him–_" He pointed his gun at Donovan. "–throw me in prison? First I kill the two of you, _then_ I shoot him."

"What about the children?" Dusty asked.

Stillwell's only answer was a sneer.

"Y'know, Frank, we ain't the scourge of the west no more. We retired," Theodore told him.

"Get down here."

Amos and Theodore came the rest of the way down the steps. Clovis and Celia stayed on the staircase. The two outlaws-turned-farmhands stepped forward. Then Theodore stepped on Clovis' new wooden train. The train rolled forward. Theodore slipped and fell onto Stillwell. His gun discharged, sending the bullet harmlessly into the ceiling.

Clovis threw a ball, beaning one of Stillwell's henchmen. He lurched off-balance. Heyes seized the moment. He swung a right hook, knocking the man down and seizing his gun.

Curry grabbed the peas from the table and threw them on the floor in front of another of the henchmen. He reached for the young gunslinger, but slipped on the peas.

Donovan rushed forward, slugging Beckham. Dusty grabbed the turkey drumstick bone and threw it. Theodore tried to get up, and slipped on the peas himself. He bumped into Amos, who bumped into another henchman.

"Is everything all right down there?" Colonel Clydesdale called from the top of the stairs.

The distraction allowed the two former outlaws, and Donovan and his wife, to get the drop on the outlaws.

Dusty looked around the room. "Lord have mercy, but this is a mess! I ought to shoot the lot of you for makin' riot of Christmas dinner!"

"Mama! Horses are comin'!"

**AS&J/ADG **

Sheriff McCoy gestured to Heyes and Curry, pulling them aside for a private word after they and the Donovans had come into town the next day to swear out statements on what had happened.

"I was going through my wanted posters, to pull out the ones of Stillwell and his gang… came across some old ones for the Devil's Hole Gang."

Heyes maintained his poker face. Curry flinched just a hair.

"Unfortunately, I've mislaid my reading glasses, so I won't be able to read them for a day, maybe two."

Neither Heyes nor Curry mentioned that they could see his spectacles peeking out of the top of his shirt pocket.

"A day or two, huh?" Heyes asked.

McCoy nodded. "The last time I lost my glasses, it took me twenty-four hours to find them."

"Twenty-four hours?" Curry repeated. He traded glances with his cousin, who nodded imperceptibly.

"We told the Colonel that we'd be staying 'til the new year, but I think we might leave early, before the weather gets any worse," Heyes said.

"That might be a real good idea." McCoy got his hat and coat. "Merry Christmas, all."

"Merry Christmas," Heyes and Curry echoed.

Well, they'd been planning to leave, anyway. The sheriff's friendly warning just meant moving a little sooner.

**AS&J/ADG**

"You know what, Kid?" Heyes asked as they rode south the following day.

"What?" Curry asked.

"Those farmhands of Donovan's, Amos and Theodore? They remind me of Kyle and Lobo," Heyes observed.

"You know, they do, don't they?" Curry agreed.

Laughter followed the two men as they kicked their horses into canters, putting some more miles between themselves and Sheriff McCoy.

_The End_


End file.
